


Tales From Isstvan III

by bluntblade



Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors, Warhammer 40.000, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dropsite Massacre, Horus Heresy, Isstvan III, Sketches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:48:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23235712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluntblade/pseuds/bluntblade
Summary: A (WIP) collection of vignettes from the Issvan Atrocity, set in the gaps left by Galaxy in Flames. Inspired in large part by Forge World's expansion of the campaign and its lore.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	1. The High Chieftain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Horus' plans for Abaddon have gone awry, as pandemonium sweeps the fleet above Isstvan III. Now, even before Abaddon sets foot on the blighted world, he has Loyalists to kill.

Choler. It runs in him, molten as Cthonia’s heart. It threatens to rule him, and the thought of that, as much as anything, has his power claw flexing. There is a danger to this fury, and he cannot afford a loss of control now. Not when the Warmaster himself is watching his plans spiral out of control.

Gazing at the blackened husk of Isstvan III, Abaddon idly wonders what the task was that Horus had specified for him and Aximand in the minutes after Angron made planetfall. A decapitation strike, most likely, while Sedirae and Targhost occupied the enemy’s attention. But instead, cracks have opened up throughout the fleet. And just like that, the intent has become irrelevant.

The charred world is now obscured by the lights of shipborne weaponry. The vox is awash with demands for answers and bloody-minded oaths - the Loyalists who had not been identified and consigned to the death-trap. Now they have shaken off their shock and begun to exact vengeance for their lost comrades.

“Something very large just cooked off,” Falkus Kibre growls next to Abaddon, idly hefting his thunder hammer. “Do we have an ident?”

Ekaddon responds. “The _Sunstone_.” The ship which carried the Terran Plenipotentiary, the Council’s representative to the Warmaster. It was meant to be taken by a Third Legion strike force, but instead it has erupted in the fires of a compromised reactor. Ekaddon chuckles grimly. “Well, that’s one way to silence the Terran emissary.”

Kibre says nothing, but Abaddon is well aware of the scowl under his helmet. He knows the warriors of his company - and others outside it - that he can read the texture of their silences as he would find meaning in the tone of another’s voice.

“Enough. We are close to the target.”

The battle-barge _King-Eater_ , a lean predator of a ship, carries First Company into the fray along with four others. It kills and cripples ships as it passes, even as it hunts for its chosen prey.

Abaddon can see it now on the forward scopes, a slab-sided brute in Death Guard colours. Another minute, and he can pick out the name _Inexorable_ on its flanks. It has interposed itself between the Warmaster’s vessels and the fleeing _Eisenstein._ Only Typhon’s _Terminus Est_ has managed to give chase, and on the tactical display Abaddon can see other ships breaking away, each trailing pursuers. 

The escapees are too far off for him to join the pursuit, but the _Inexorable_ is causing intolerable amounts of havoc. The Warmaster has instructed Abaddon to take it and thus, it will be taken. 

It isn’t even a matter of loyalty as far as Abaddon is concerned. Lupercal’s word ordains, and his lieutenants must simply navigate their way to that eventuality.

Of this he says nothing. He merely says “to the teleportarium.” The _King Eater_ 's array is not as powerful as the that of the _Vengeful Spirit_ , but with the enemy ship’s shields slowly collapsing beneath broadsides from her erstwhile sisters, it will suffice. 

First Company take their places, the Catulan Reavers on the flanks while the Justaerin form the iron-hard centre. The other companies are aboard Stormbirds and Thunderhawks. Some would call this insane, to send the more valued warriors ahead and deeper into enemy territory. To which Abaddon would say that some people haven’t seen First Company in action.

Kibre and Ekaddon are both rolling their shoulders. Ekaddon has drawn a power axe as well as one of his beloved daggers. Frost creeps up their armour, just as it slowly spreads across the warplate of the rest.

Abaddon keeps still, though the kill-urge runs just as hot and urgent under his skin. It is something that comes to him both as habit and ritual, caging the fire inside him and letting it build to the very edge of eruption.

Then the cold light consumes everything around them. Abaddon swallows down the hateful feeling and th-

-en they are in a gloomy chamber, and mortal voices are screaming.

“Abaddon!” they cry. “Abaddon is here!”

It occurs to him, with a grim sense of irony, that Imperium citizens understand why he should be feared better than any outsider.

In that moment of contemplation, he raises his combi-bolter and bursts the first mortal crewman. Then a second. Then a third - no, Gedephron has a bead on him. Abaddon abandons the shot before he even begins to aim it, looking beyond the Legion serf-soldiers to the real enemy. 

The Death Guard come on at a pace which belies their foot-slogging reputation. Perhaps the Dusk Raider inheritance is strong in them. No matter. Abaddon meets the first with a volley of bolter-shells which turns his chest into a gory basin, and the second with a faceful of talons which explode through the back of his attacker’s skull. Blood on bone-white. The Death Guard crumples.

Abaddon is not spoken of as one of the great warriors for any great feat performed in a training cage or pit. No one talks of a time he fought a single opponent for thirty hours. His legend was forged in the fires of battles like this. For here, in the desperate press and frenzy, the battle-king reveals himself. 

His power sword hisses from its scabbard and comes to sizzling life. His claw locks around a chainsword and crushes it, before Abaddon guts his attacker. The Death Guard before him are good and would no doubt make short work of any mortal soldier, but in the Justaerin and Catulan Reavers they have met a foe that outclasses them almost as much as they do baseline humans. A killing force united by savage purpose and a mutual understanding born of decades spent fighting together.

The extent to which brotherhood elevates the Astartes is barely understood by most Imperials. A few who have studied the Legions at length can articulate it properly. They could explain that Abaddon doesn’t need to kill the warrior whose sword-swing he blocks here, that Abaddon simply plows on because Kibre’s hammer is already up and that warrior’s life is now doomed to end in an explosion of light and cerebral matter. But they can’t capture the essence of it, the sense-defying speed and assurance with which First Company rip through their cousins. 

Vox-contact tells Abaddon that Goshen has got Twenty-Fifth Company aboard and is working his way towards him. Seventieth and Eighty-Second are not far behind, while Thirty-First have struck for the Navigator’s tabernacle and are ripping their way enthusiastically through the serf resistance set against them. 

The conclusion is decided. All is, as it always is for Abaddon, as Horus decrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always wondered what Horus' "other plans" were for Abaddon, and then after I read Betrayal, I realised he had bigger things to worry about.


	2. The Honour of His Legion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saul Tarvitz's fighting retreat to the Preceptor's Palace, after Angron's attack.

They have no Lords Commander. The realisation thunders in Saul Tarvitz’s head. The ash on the ground is already deep enough for his boots to sink into it with every step, and there is more falling.

Dioklan of the 11th Millennial is dead, killed in the virus bombardment. Adromakyas’ shelter collapsed in the firestorm; of the 24th Millennial, only four companies’ worth of marines have emerged from the rubble and their leader is not with them. The 29th are falling back from a brutal fight with the World Eaters, which has claimed Coerates.

And now Abdemon has fallen. One of the IIIrd Legion’s best-known blademasters, the Hero of Proxima, slain by one of his own captains. Tarvitz has seen Abdemon fight three times, each one a privilege almost comparable to watching a Primarch in combat. Of all the other kinsmen he has glimpsed in battle, only Lucius and Abaddon have come close. Now he is cut down.

And yet, on this accursed, absurd day, the death of Abdemon is just another mad occurrence. Another to set beside the Warmaster turning traitor, virus-bombs falling on Astartes and the sight of a Primarch ripping his own sons apart.

So he runs, leading the warriors caught up in his wake. In the confusion, even an Astartes can only hope to ride the momentum of a man who is clear of purpose. Tarvitz, not for the first time, knows his purpose.

Once they are within the Palace, they can endure for the best part of a year. A system governor’s seat is well-stocked at almost all times, and Vardus Praal was digging in for a prolonged siege. On top of that, every Astartes carries enough sustenance within his armour to sustain him for weeks or even months on end. That is the case for Tarvitz - he may not have been assigned to the surface, but he keeps himself fully equipped as a matter of due diligence, whenever he puts on his armour. It is well that he has kept to that habit, though if they cannot make it to the Palace then it will be something of a moot point.

It might be about to become a moot point very shortly. There are squads of green armoured warriors moving towards them through the ash and rubble. Sons of Horus - and they don’t have the look of men who’ve been caught up in an attack by their own side. No, they move with the certainty of predators.

“Enemy?” Bulle asks over the radio.

Tarvitz answers by levelling his blade at the Sons of Horus and issuing the bluntest of challenges: “Traitors!” The jeer that comes back settles the matter, and a roar of anger erupts from around Tarvitz. 

Some of the Emperor’s Children peel off to the sides, opening fire. The rest break into a full-tilt charge. “Glory to His name!” Tarvitz cries.

“Death to His foes!” comes the answer.

Two mobile walls of ceramite thunder into contact. Swords ring on shields. Chainblades shriek and power fields snarl against one another. Vox-mangled bellows of rage split the air.

Immediately it’s apparent to Tarvitz that these are among the deadliest opponents he has ever faced. Maybe it’s easier than his initial encounters with the Megarachnid, but only by familiarity with a Space Marine’s technique and capabilities, and further acquaintance with the Sixteenth Legion. 

More than mere acquaintance, he realises - and his warriors must note it as well, because there’s a marked increase in the fervour of their curses and wordless shouts. They might be in a fight for their eyes, but the Emperor’s Children develop a certain eye for heraldry.

And Tarvitz has realised the enemy bear the insignia of the 29th Company - one of Torgaddon’s, once. He’s fought beside them, dozens of times. Which means that the betrayal is all the more personal now.

He plunges his sabre through an opponent’s neck, mashes his shield into the faceplate of another and leaves the brother on his left to deal with him. Few Legions took the coordination of Astartes to the extreme that the Third do. They had been taught this by the Blight, when they stood on the verge of extinction. To survive, and then to prosper, meant striving together. Now the loyal Children of the Emperor are cast out and betrayed, it matters more than ever.

He is marked before his opponent before he sees him. The Luna Wolves rarely bothered with Champions any more than the Emperor’s Children did - in both Legions there is an expectation of leading by example, and thus an expectation of excellence in all disciplines.

The captain advancing on Tarvitz - one Zymeon Sulla - exemplifies that. He’s no match for one of the Mournival, but by any other measure he’s formidable.

The formation opens up around them, and Sulla comes at Tarvitz with an impressive balance of aggression and caution. Shield up and sword back, a posture that keeps him ready to absorb any attack and counter it.

There is, Tarvitz supposes, an appealing symmetry to this - two warriors, matched in their manner of armament except for the aesthetics. Moreover, for any observer, there is the suspense inherent in them being former comrades. That provides a visceral hatred, which vies with a caution born of knowing the other’s skill. Neither underestimates his foe.

Tarvitz’s anger is the greater, he suspects. By all rights it should be. But that’s no excuse for dying here and now, martyred to his sense of injustice.

That would be folly, and a betrayal of the old ethos of his Legion. It’s that ethos that keeps him restrained as Sulla prowls closer. No words are spoken - gloating isn’t the way of Cthonians, and certainly not the way of the warrior who knows his business. His vindication is the kill, all else is ephemeral.

Tarvitz agrees. So he holds back still, feeling the tension curdle in the air. Perfectly patient - in the old sense.  _ Purity, not superiority _ . It might not be true for his erstwhile brothers any more, but it is for Tarvitz.

Sulla snaps at last. His attack is sound; economical and with minimal exposure, but still a killstroke if it connects. But it’s still enough to doom him.

Tarvitz’s sword passes his enemy’s blade, aiming instead for the arm that directs it. The monomolecular edge of the charnabal broadsword parts ceramite, fibre-muscle and the fiesh and bone beneath. Before the howl of rage and pain can issue from Sulla’s mouth, Tarvitz has twisted around and hammered his shield into the Son of Horus’ gut. Then he wheels again and sweeps his sword down. With a spurt of blood, Sulla’s helmed head goes rolling across the scorched earth.

It’s not artful. Lucius wouldn’t rate this as a feat of arms. But Torgaddon and Garro would, and for all that the Third disparage the brutishness of their cousins, sometimes brutishness works.

The triumphant roar goes up around Tarvitz, and in the second it takes the enemy to register their captain’s fall, their doom is sealed. Sulla hasn’t even hit the ground before Tarvitz lunges and opens another Son of Horus from collarbone to hip, and Bulle has sprung to his side. Immediately his warriors are with him.

They slay all that stand before them, snatch up what weapons and supplies they can carry from the dead., and the escape continues.

Today they will live. Today they will make it to the Palace, and they will endure to make sure that the enemy pay for their betrayal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find yourself wondering who Abdemon is, I refer you to Josh Reynolds' excellent Fulgrim: the Palatine Phoenix.


	3. The Tower of the Death's Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Esau Turnet, Princeps Senioris of the Legio Mortis and master of the Dies Irae, is undergoing an unpleasantly protracted lesson in impotence.

The  _ Dies Irae _ should have ended this campaign already. It should have wiped the nearby Death Guard off the map, and then led its war maniple on the Preceptor’s Palace. Aided by the lesser Titans which accompany it, it would have been able to level the structure in mere minutes and kill every enemy Astartes sheltering within.

Princeps Majoris Esau Turnet watches the roiling clouds above and sees the lightning which throws their contortions into sharp relief. More and more he imagines that the elements mock him with this display of power. Such power is his to wield, being as he is the master of an Imperator Titan. He should be bringing it to bear upon the foe.

But he is short a number of vital crew, and so the  _ Dies Irae _ , avatar of the Omnissiah, is rendered impotent. As indeed are the rest of its maniple. Its crews are shaving with improvised razors and growing unpleasantly used to the smell of their unwashed uniforms and selves. When they walk, they pace like caged beasts, desperate to hunt.

There was time enough to land vehicles, Skitarii and automata from their bound taghmata. But trained Titan operatives are in much shorter supply and none could be flown down, so the reinforcements can do little more than stand watch, just in case the Loyalists are foolish enough to challenge the god-machines.

They are the only Titans on Isstvan III; the Legio Audax are in orbit but Angron neglected to bring them along on his ludicrous attack. Turnet is, on some level, grateful for that. The Ember Wolves are a devolved, animalistic breed. He dislikes having to share the battlefield with them at the best of times, and to cede glory to them would be unbearable.

So they stand as silent sentinels, watching the long grind of the campaign play out. The lingering revenge of Titus Cassar, even if the fool didn’t intend it that way. Turnet hasn’t spoken with Aruken much, doing so only to confirm that the remaining moderati is still reliable. He has Secutarii detailed to keep an eye on him.

Every now and again, Turnet will order a scope trained on the spot where the dead turncoat hit the ground, after the Secutarii threw him from the battlements of the Titan. There is a scattering of other corpses at the war maniple’s feet, just rags and fragmented bones in the mud now.

Turnet is looking at their remains again. To go the way of flesh, their decay laid out for all to see, only seems right for those who defied the will of the Omnissiah. Turnet, like any good servant of the Legio Mortis, despises such signs of organic frailty.

Lightning draws Turnet’s eyes upward. Despite the violence of the weather now, the storms are gradually abating. Soon the rest of the Warmaster’s forces will be free to descend, as will fresh crew for the Titans. Then the  _ Dies Irae _ will be free again to stride and destroy, obliterating this shame as it will the foes of the Warmaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I refuse to believe I'm the only one who found it funny that the Legio Mortis sat around Isstvan III for months with their thumbs up their arses.


	4. The Nail-Bitten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Centurion Shabran Darr of the World Eaters is, unsurprisingly, an angry sort. But even by World Eater standards, he has much to be angry about.

In the quieter moments, when Shabran Darr feels able, he reflects darkly on the several ways in which his father has already killed him.

It’s an impressive tally, when he manages to work past the stabbing attentions of the Butcher's Nails. Firstly the World Eaters, acting on Angron’s authority, claimed him from Cuth’Vasi and consigning him to a life that might span centuries but can only end in violent death. Setting him among a mongrel brotherhood, all speaking a tongue born of no world, a tongue for orphans whose only culture is the fighting pits, morbid humour and a brotherhood which is now sundered.

Then, second, the unspoken decree that the Legionaries of the Twelfth let the Nails be hammered into their skulls, offering up their own minds in tribute to their gene-sire. That, Darr knows, has locked him into the cycle of degeneration - sometimes slow, sometimes rapid - that eventually sees every World Eater brought low. For sooner or later the Nails take a hold, either goading the warrior from the line of battle and down a gory path to his own death, or plunging him into a frenzy from which there is no release, save for the Emperor’s Peace.

And finally, the two rather more direct death sentences which he has received here. First the bombardments and now the attack which has openly pitted World Eater against World Eater.

There’s no real pattern to it, as far as Darr can see it. The Sarum-pattern helmets are in evidence on both sides, no indication of the attackers being in higher favour than Darr and his comrades had enjoyed. As the days of fighting became weeks, he still hasn't been able to determine how his company warranted this betrayal.

The Nails pry further into Darr’s brain and drive out the thought. It’s irrelevant anyway. Reasons can come when his enemies lie dead.

A former brother stands opposite him. That’s all that matters right now, and Darr feels the parameters of his world constrict.

It all shrinks down to the shriek of chainaxe on chainsword, the grunts and snarls that crackle through vox-grilles. 

His anger has a different temperature now. It’s cold and clear, an anger he can see through instead of vanishing into. He reads his opponent’s intent to slash at his right arm and moves diagonally, stepping past the screaming sword. His axe rips down and takes his enemy’s arm off at the elbow, briefly juddering and bellowing as it swallows a chunk of bone and spits out splinters and gristle.

Darr doesn’t attempt any grand finishing move. He jams his bolt pistol under his enemy’s chin and plants a round. The Traitor falls, missing the front portion of his skull.

Then the next. This time there’s an opening immediately, and Darr’s axe plows into the gap between gorget and helm, churning up an explosion of blood.

Two more, one of whom he wounds in the knee and pulls himself away from when one of his brothers - Chaplain Kassim, one of his true brothers - lays into the fallen enemy with his crozius, caving in his breastplate with repeated blows.

The Nails bite in a nagging way, their urging in conflict with the instincts born of training. The Astartes’ preternatural coordination, the absolute awareness of their brothers, urges Darr forward to remove the next obstacle. But the Nails demand that he linger, carving the life from his fallen opponent instead of leaving him to Kassim.

Darr overrules them and presses on, raising his gun as he makes for his last opponent. His shots stagger his enemy and crack his armour. His swing hits the weakened ceramite and draws up a gout of blood and pulverised meat. The Traitor stabs at him with his combat blade. Darr twitches to the side and the knife screeches along his faceplate, but he barely notices. Instead he slams his forehead into his enemy’s face, shattering the vox-grille and cracking an eye-lens. The Traitor goes down. 

Darr plants a boot on his opponent’s chest and brings the axe screaming down, carving a bloody hole in the downed warrior’s torso. Some cool, clinical part of him surfaces from the blaze in his head to note that it takes five seconds of spasms for the Traitor to give up the ghost. He’s impressed and irritated by that in equal measure.

Relative silence is around him now; this ugly little brawl is done. His warriors cluster around him, waiting for orders.

The Nails prod for a moment. Kassim sees it, eyeing Darr warily.

Then they flare for a second time, the pain lingering inside Darr’s skull for longer. They want him to know that he could sate them right now. He could tear into his brothers here and win himself a brief span of -

_No_ . As he always has done, he wrenches himself back. _Not today_. 

Especially not now that he has more than the bonds of gene-brotherhood tying him to his fellow Legionaries. Here on Isstvan, they have gained the kinship of warriors renounced by their own father.

Four death sentences handed down from his father. Four death sentences he cannot outrun, but which he will defy until Isstvan III drinks the last of his blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shabran Darr was added to Isstvan III by Forge World. Chaplain Kassim was created by the modeller known as KrautScientist, and is included here as a little homage to his work. Seriously, go check out his daemon Angron.


	5. The Jester

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tarik Torgaddon reflects on weapons, warriors and loyalty.

The popular image of the great warriors holds that each of them bears a single signature weapon. It is a false image, however iconic. Certainly there is Sigismund with the Black Sword and Sevatar with the infamous chainglaive, but they are perhaps the exception that proves the rule. 

Khârn of the Bloody Twelfth rarely seems to retain a weapon for more than a few years, such is the attrition that the World Eaters impose on their weapons and their unwillingness to repair a broken blade. And there are less extreme examples like Lamiad of the Thirteenth and Argel Tal of the Seventeenth, who maintain an extensive armoury and select their tools as circumstances or whim dictate.

Tarik Torgaddon is one of the latter, and while he normally favours the kind of broadsword common to his Legion, for Isstvan III he opted for his power axe. It was forged from Medusan steel, a gift from Clan Brannsar after the Terentius Castigation. Its design is quintessential Tenth Legion craft: precisely calculated overkill, multiple disruptor fields overlapping to enhance its lethality. Torgaddon calls it _Punchline_ , and his comrades have never failed to groan when this is brought up.

He wields it in conjunction with a bolt pistol which is nearly as finely wrought. The cagey sword-and-board method that Aximand and Loken tend toward finds little favour with Torgaddon. Like Abaddon and Sedirae he prefers a bullish approach, exploiting his speed and strength to put an enemy off-balance and keep him that way until the kill.

It's less applicable against fellow Space Marines than mortals and aliens, of course, but it still works for a warrior of Torgaddon’s skill. The World Eaters he’s been fighting are, or rather _were_ formidable in their own right, but Torgaddon didn't make Second Captain for his commander’s talents alone. 

"I was there..." A way off, Loken is telling stories again, of some campaign. Torgaddon can't make out the words yet, but if he had to guess from Loken's tone, he'd say the Auretian Technocracy, the Xenobian War or one of the smaller actions they undertook during their unofficial exile from the fleet. 

There’s that tone in Loken’s voice which the Wolves of the Rout found so strange. As their old Priest, their _skjald_ , put it, Loken can tell a story in a manner none of them can. A manner which that speaks of campaigns in a way that makes plain the valour and honour of those who fought in it, even as it laments that the war was fought at all. The _Vlka Fenrika_ have no such tales in their sprawl of sagas, as far as Torgaddon knows. Truer wolves than the Sixteenth ever were, they have a blunt and unapologetic attitude to their battles.

Torgaddon broods uncharacteristically about the recent campaigns now. He curses his own ignorance, that he hadn't realised something was amiss. If not their absence from the Legion's centre, then reports of Horus vanishing into frontier space with only a single ship and returning with a rogue Knight House sworn to his banner. A Knight House marked for destruction from the first the Imperium had come into contact with them, but who were suddenly vouched for by the Warmaster himself.

Then there was Aureus, month after grisly month beside the World Eaters. There had been talk about how the XVIth were to set an example to the World Eaters, bringing them back in line with the Imperium's needs and doctrines after Ghenna. No such work was ever undertaken to Torgaddon's knowledge. Back then he blamed it on the dictates of a gruelling campaign.

Now Angron regularly assaults the Palace, and as Torgaddon watches the Red Angel grow ever more bloodthirsty, he doubts that Horus ever wished to bring his brother Primarch back in line.

Loken's story draws to an end as he gets closer. Torgaddon finds his fellow captain sat among Luna Wolves, Emperor’s Children and World Eaters, cleaning a chainsword. 

“You didn’t lose old _Wolfstooth_ , did you brother?” He adds a raised eyebrow as he glances along the chainblade. Loken’s paragon blade is nowhere to be seen.

“I handed it off to Gaius,” Loken says, referring to the designated Champion of Tenth Company. He sees Torgaddon’s quizzical look. “We went blade-to-blade with Eidolon’s companies, and Gaius ended up fighting Eidolon himself.” 

“And got away?”

“Just about, but minus his sword. Not that he didn’t make good use of what was left,” Bulle of Tarvitz’s company adds. “Konenos went for Gaius and Gaius caught him across the throat.”

“He killed him?” That would be a worthy prize; Eidolon’s second-in-command. And a quintessentially Sixteenth Legion kill against the arrogant commanders of the Third.

Loken shrugs. “We can’t be sure. The apothecaries were on him quickly, and Eidolon broke off the attack to pull him out.”

“Gaius made Eidolon display concern for someone else? Man should be a bloody Librarian as well as your Champion.” Torgaddon chuckles. “I guess all that warrants giving him the sword.”

Loken nods at the axe. “I never thought I’d be so pleased to see Medusan steel. It reminds me we’ve got loyal brothers out there yet.”

But Torgaddon wonders if he can muster the same confidence. "You don’t think the Gorgon would turn?" he asks, trying to do so lightly. It feels vaguely treasonous with the axe in his hand, but the fact of their own gene-sire trying to cull them has rather opened his mind in that regard.

Loken doesn't even consider the notion. "I'm not sure Lord Manus has the mindset to consider rebellion, considering all that Sedirae and Abaddon said about him."

"And besides," Bulle adds. "Nathaniel and maybe others got free. The Iron Tenth will be the first to answer when word of this gets out." For the betrayed Children of the Emperor, the Lord of Iron's constancy has become an article of faith. That, and the Death Guard Battle-Captain's escape. 

Torgaddon wonders what that says, the most refined of Legions putting its trust in two which its officers sometimes regarded as rough and uncultured. But then he knows both Lord Manus and Garro, and neither of them are easily bested.

It occurs to Torgaddon with grim amusement that every Third Legion warrior he fought beside on Murder and actually liked is down here. At least, all those who survived the intervening wars.

Indeed he wonders if they even count as separate Legions anymore, now that they have Emperor’s Children Devastators supporting World Eaters assault squads and Luna Wolves tactical marines fighting alongside them.

That fits better, he decides. As long as they endure they’ll be one loyal Legion, no matter the colours they wear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a huge amount to say about this one, except that I missed the more barbed humour of Abnett's Torgaddon and wanted him to share more page-time with Loken.
> 
> Clan Brannsar are the homebrew project of Iron Hands Fanatic, and I encourage you to check out his work.


End file.
